


A Bit of Earth

by Argyle



Category: The Secret Garden
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-25
Updated: 2004-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:18:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Where you tend a rose, my lad, a thistle cannot grow.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of Earth

With each breath, Colin imagined that he felt the strength of the moor settle heatedly within his veins, shifting and drawing to deeper reaches of his being. As with the beating of his heart, there seemed to be a certain song borne upon the wind, changing its pitch with every speck of pollen, arcing over petals and captured by fractures of sunlight. He shifted against the scarlet folds of his blanket, letting his eyes slowly wander over the velvet sweep of the garden. The air soared sweetly against his ears, toward the glow of overhanging bows and blossoms, matching the threads of hushed laughter and footfall as Mary and Dickon danced before a wash of roses.

Slowly grazing the tips of his fingers across the grass by his side, Colin smiled at the scent of fresh growth that stirred around him. The bark of a nearby tree was slick beneath his palm as he stood, steadying himself and walking softly across the pleated path. He frowned, quickly glancing toward the others as they paid him little mind, and kneeled once more by a patch of bare earth. A small rose stood nearby, its darkly cupped petals drawn tightly against the shadows of ivy and crumbling mortar.

Although the soil was softened by the touch of recent rain, Colin’s arms trembled as he drew against it with the point of his trowel, his knees pushing roughly to the ground. He set his jaw, his brow furrowing as bits of earth were upturned with the sharp jabbing of his wrist, the must of decay flickering over his tongue.

At last he set the trowel aside, his breath dimly shaking his form as he set his hand to his mouth to stifle a cough. He felt his heart clench as his gaze traced through the arching branches, his mind grappling with some doubt of whether Mary and Dickon had left him as such phantoms were wont to do.

“Dickon?” Colin called, his voice carrying softly with the breeze as he set a shaky hand to his chest. “Mary? You must come out!”

A quiet seemed to fall upon the garden, the rustling of leaves and the underlying current of laughter fading from Colin’s ears. There was then only the sounding of his own pulse and the swift shuffle of heavy leather boots, dimming as a hand pressed lightly against his shoulder and a form settled beside him. Pursing his lips to mask his gasp, Colin turned, his gaze falling upon Dickon.

“Shh,” Dickon said, his mouth gently parting as his hand traced across Colin’s back. The boy’s eyes gleamed with the promise of tomorrow’s life and the whisper of yesterday’s delight, cheeks sanguine and hair tousled caringly with the morning air, bowed lips curving into a warm smile as he reached forward suddenly, taking the trowel in his hand.

“Wait! I...” Colin trailed off, shaking his head with a sudden frown.

Dickon arched a coppery brow, his laugh sounding as a springtime brook, at ease in its bounty. “See?” He nodded, glancing toward Colin as he set the tip of the trowel back to the earth, its curve glistening against the sunlight and the reflection of nearby blooms. “Tha’ mun be gentle,” he said, “so th’ earth know thee.”

Colin leaned forward, his hand lingering against Dickon’s as he grasped the trowel once more. There was soil brushed across Dickon’s fingertips, cool with the echo of his passage upon the moor and early hours spent within the garden.

Perhaps years passed as Colin parted the earth with the polished blade, digging softly as his shoulder pressed firmly to Dickon. There was a rhythm to the movement, a certainty as Colin’s gaze settled on the ruddy curve of Dickon’s mouth.

Breathing deeply, Colin laughed at the sudden scent of lavender as it grazed across his tongue, the vines resuming their previous motion as Dickon stood. Their eyes met and Dickon nodded, acknowledging the wind that presently played through his rust-red hair with a dash of his hand across his brow. His form, cradled within the sprawling image of the garden, seemed eternal, neither a spirit of past or present. Colin at once felt himself to be dreaming as his gaze was weighted upon by Dickon’s, the glint of the Yorkshire sky brimming forth from the other’s dark lashes. Shifting his footing, leather boots oddly quiet against the grass, Dickon smiled.

“I think I’ll be able to manage from here.” Colin stirred at last, his cheeks flushing as he reached forward and took the potted rose in his hands.

“Aye,” Dickon said, his grin broadening, “tha’ can.”

Colin watched as Dickon languidly moved toward the trunk of a great tree, pulling his pipe from his belt and setting it to his lips. Mary sat nearby, her face vibrant with the morning sun, sight unflinching upon Dickon.

The rose trembled against Colin’s fingertips as he pulled the dusky mass of its roots from the pot, petals moving gracefully as though it had been stirred from a deep sleep. He set it against his lips, smiling as he kissed it and set it into the earth. Patting the soil around it, Colin steadied the leaves and tiny thorns. He sighed as Dickon’s song swept across his form, gliding before the remembered edges of a dream and the hope that yet hung before his eyes.


End file.
